


Bossman

by FoxLight



Series: The Strawberry Shortcake Chronicles [8]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Changelings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 08:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxLight/pseuds/FoxLight
Summary: In which Strickler confesses to a baby.





	Bossman

Strickler rarely took his scotch with ice. 

He set the glass of Talisker down on his desk, admiring the soft clink the cubes made against their crystal cage. A small, ornate box rested next to him, and he opened it with heavy eyes. Out came a pipe, along with its accompanying tamper, a box of matches, and a gleaming tin of tobacco. He opened the tin, and began to pack the leaves into the pipe’s time-worn, wooden bowl. All of this, he did with nimble fingers and a practiced hand. All of it, he did with a sunken heart. 

She’d fallen asleep shortly after their dance, practically during it, and he’d watched her steady breathing for the better half of an hour, before finally succumbing to fatigue himself. Their morning was affectionate, romantic, if not a little rushed, and although they didn’t make love, he still found himself flushing over their shared intimacy.

As old as he was, and as strange as it seemed to admit, he’d never been this close. Not to anyone.

His past dalliances were trifles compared to this--meaningless moments of lust brought on by a desire for conquest, and always with another changeling. In his youth, he’d used seduction as a tool to gain power. In his prime, others had employed it against him to do the same. It was a constant power play, and one that often ended up with the slaughter of one side or the other. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d ended up with a knife to his throat, or with his knife to another’s. 

Always, it had been a hollow, empty affair. Eventually he’d gained enough clout to stop having to take the risk altogether, preferring the satisfaction of having his head attached to his neck, over the satisfaction of other body parts. Certainly, he didn’t court around with humans. When it came to romancing the softer species, he did what was necessary to gain whatever information or object he needed, and then flew the coop before things could progress into the serious. Anything more was bad form—vile and weak. With the physiological differences, one risked blowing one’s cover. And he’d always considered himself too cunning to resort to such things.

But here he was now, clutching the bleak hand of treachery. Of course, nothing about being with Barbara seemed vile or weak, or even immoral. It felt sacred. If he’d ever been alive or awake, he didn’t remember it before now. He coveted their bond like nothing else, wanted to cloister it away from the world, to keep it safe and a secret forever.

“Can’t, old boy.” he said to himself as he shoved the end of the pipe between his lips. What was he going to go? Take her from this world like a changeling babe and hide her away in the shadows? That wasn’t love. He didn’t want to cage her soul like a trapped starling. 

The only solution, he thought as he struck a match and circled it around the pipe’s bowl, was to let her go: to free her of the bond and keep watch from afar, to love her like she deserved…

He puffed. The tobacco flared, and then went out. Lighting another match, he repeated the steps.

And, of course, he had to help the Trollhunter. Really help him, not just avoid killing him. It went against everything he;d ever known. Not just Gunmar—that hardly mattered—but against his maker. The Pale One. 

A noise caught his attention: the almost imperceptible scratching of claws against a hard surface. Sniffing the air a few times, he snorted. Tangy, sulphurous; he recognized the scent. It was a newer one. 

The air snapped as he changed into his second skin. The pipe came out of his mouth and, growling, he sent out a low warning. “Show yourself,” he said, as he grabbed one of the blades along his neck. The intruder stopped scurrying. He saw the shadow paused, and then gingerly it stepped forward to reveal itself beneath the light of the desk-lamp. 

“I see the traitor has returned,” he said evenly, though his voice was marred by his trollish vocal chords. 

“A ain’t no traitor.” NotEnrique snuffed indignantly. “Just workin’ a coupla sides, that’s all.”

“And what a bang-up job you’ve done of it.” He narrowed his yellow gaze. “Tell me, what on earth would possess you to show your foul snout around here, hmm? If someone of the Order were to walk in, they would undoubtedly question my alignment. I have half a mind to kill you, and rightly should.” 

“Yeah, I –eh,” he scratched the back of his scruff, “I had a coupla questions about, y’know, how to adapt to all this surface business. You didn’t rat me out when me cover was blown before; I figured ya might not snitch on me now.” 

The changeling gave him a hard look, before the slits in his eyes softened. “Very well.” He placed the knife back along his collar. “You will come to no harm here.”

“Just like that?” NotEnrique shot him a bewildered look. 

“For now, young one,” he said, with a voice that matched his years. With a world-weary huff, Strickler sat back in his chair.

The smaller changeling drew closer, as if to warm himself by this new fire. “I ain’t seen ya glammed up this close, Bossman,” he offered after studying his superior for a moment, “You look like me, except maybe ten foot taller.”

“Not quite that much,” Strickler eyed the pint-sized changeling. “In time, you may come to be as tall. Now that you have been released into the human realm, you will grow, as I did.”

NotEnrique studied the pigment of the skin along his own arm, and scratched at the stone with his claw. “We could be kin, you know.”

“I think not,” the elder grumbled. “What composes me is very rare--but we are still brothers for what we are, even with your treachery. You must never forget that. _We_ are your family, not the humans; not troll-kind, either. Your duty is to your brothers and sisters, before anything, even Gunmar.”

“But, I thought we was all Gunmar’s special little imps, destined to get a slice of the pie once he’s taken over the surface.”

Strickler gave a thready laugh. “Make no mistake, we are _part_ of that pie. Now that you have joined us on the surface, you will come to know a great deal about how our politics have changed. The rhetoric that they have been teaching you in the Darklands is quite dated. Our time in the sun has taught us much about the power of our half-blooded race, how it exceeds even that of troll-kind. We walk _both_ lands, see with _both_ eyes, and feel with _both_ hearts. Where humans fall within the darkness of caverns, we climb with steady ease—where troll steps shiver from the gleaming rays of sunlight, we tread with an unwavering foot. There is nothing that we’re not capable of, if we only had the courage to realize…”

“Wait now, chief. Just whose side are you on, here?”

“The winning one,” he smirked, and changed into a human once more. He struck another match and re-lit his pipe, which had gone out in the ensuing conversation. The air filled with warm, vanilla notes. “Now, why have you really come? What is it you’ve risked your neck just to ask me, hmm?”

“Well, I was in me crib the other night,” he began, “and I was gettin’ real tired of spittin’ up all the time, and I thought to meself: why am I doin’ all of this anyway? Why is it worth it? This Lake kid’s just gonna take my familiar, and then I’m gonna be without a place, y’now? Aside from not really wantin’ to go back to the Darklands, I couldn’t really see the benefit.”

“It’s difficult,” Strickler agreed, “especially with your position in this plight, but I doubt that the boy will succeed in opening the portal again; and even if he does, there’s even less of a chance that he will survive the caverns. For now, you’re just going to have to put up with being an infant. It’s only a handful of years—that’s nothing in our lifetime—you’ll be walking and talking like the rest of them soon.”

The youngling looked up, and scratched the tip of his ear. “Yeah, well, that’s really not what’s botherin’ me. I was sittin’ there and I looked over, and there was a picture of Claire on the wall. And I had this feelin’ come over me, like I wanted to protect her, keep her happy in this world—like she was really me kin. I couldn’t fight it, Bossman, and now I’m worried that I’ll get too attached. Maybe I’ve gone too soft already, sidin’ with them, but that was just to save me own skin. Now, I’ve got this gushy feelin’ that she’s my actual sister. How do I get rid of it?”

For a long time, Strickler stayed silent, his green eyes fixated on the patterns of rain outside the window. Puffs of smoke billowed out of his mouth like a dragon’s as the cool, conditioned air swirled around them.

“I’m afraid there’s not much to be done about it,” he finally said, his voice low, almost unsure. It took the smaller changeling by surprise.

“There isn’t?” NotEnrique asked, staring up with the hungry eyes of a child.

“No, little whelp.” Strickler shook his head, sparing no more words. 

“But you’re one’a’the darkest guys out there. I’ve heard stories about your exploits, in both the Darklands and the Surface. You’ve got quite the record on you, Pops—as slimy as they come. I figured if anyone could give me some advice on how to stamp these sentiments, it was you. Are you trying to tell me you never felt anything for them--the humans? If that’s the case, I guess I really have failed.”

He set the glass down. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Then how do you do it?” He skittered across the desk and sat like a dog, with his paws between his feet, eager to learn. “I mean even with this Lake lady, the boy’s mum. You’ve got her right around your finger. That’s some top-notch acting, right there. Even Drall and the boy think you’re soft on her—and _they_ know you’re not playing for keeps. What gives?”

Strickler laughed through his nose, almost coughing on his smoke.

“I’m bein’ serious.”

The elder changeling leaned across the table, heightening the melodrama. “Here’s a secret for you, then,” the scent of Talisker was hot on his breath as he whispered, “and you can’t tell the others, because if you do, so help me, I will have you strung up and thrown right back through that Fetch to be eaten by Gunmar. He’ll probably get sick with your bilious eating habits, and then he’ll vomit you up and the goblins will munch on your spongy little bones.”

The smaller changeling shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, alright, let’s have it.”

Walter’s face hardened with the weight of his next words. “It’s never an act—not with the ones that matter,” he explained. “It might start out like one, much like your situation with Claire, but it doesn’t end that way, not even for me. That’s the trouble with being a half-breed: we’re subject to confusion when it comes to defining our identity. Unfortunately, our proclivity is to sympathize and align ourselves with humankind, but despite our many cohesions, we do not share a lifespan. When we bond with them, we bring ourselves great anguish. The scars of that run very deep within me, my friend, and they will in you. As far as choices are concerned, if you wish to survive, you must consider the longevity of our monstrous kin. Human problems, their wars, their little spats—they last the breadth of a century or two at most, and die off with the generations. The campaigns of troll-kind span millennia. You want to live their lifespan? Then you’ll have to play the game their way.”

“What about the Lake kid? Doesn’t he change the game?”

Another sip of whiskey down the gullet. “The Lady wants him for her own. I fear for what that means.”

“What’s she gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed, letting the head of the whiskey roll through his nose. “Her designs are a mystery, even to us, but Merlin was one of her greatest enemies. I don’t think she means to be kind.”

They sat for another while in stillness as the pipe smoldered, listening as the rain died off and gave way to the wind. But by and by, he caught the little minion stealing glances at his highball. Briefly, he wondered why he was putting up with this nonsense.

 _Because you’re lost, you ancient windbag, and these are the only ears to hear you._

“Hmm,” his lip cocked, and then his eyes searched his desk. Reaching for the pencil-holder on his desk, he dumped its contents, and splashed a bit of Talisker into its hollow. 

“I suppose you won’t mind the graphite,” Strickler said as he handed it over.

“Yumm,” NotEnrique rubbed his paws together, and then grabbed it, taking a large gulp.

“Slow down,” a long hand tipped the end of the glass away from the greedy mouth. “It’s supposed to be sipped, you idiot.”

“Tastes like me human da’s old leather wallet. He still hasn’t figured out where it went,” NotEnrique laughed.

Strickler scowled, and then went back to tasting his own glass. “In truth, I don’t wish Jim any harm,” he said, continuing their conversation, “but what am I to do? As our creator, we owe it to the Pale Lady to serve her will. We were made for it. _I_ was made for it.”

The youth didn’t contest him, and instead cocked his head curiously, having come to some stray thought.

“Weren’t you one of her first little babies?”

Stricklander blinked at him, brows furrowing amid the pipe-smoke. “Where did you come by that knowledge?”

“I dunno, it’s been a long time in them Darklands. I overheard Mr. Four-arms talkin’ about it once.”

“Dictatious?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I was sneakin’ around gettin’ antsy about going through that Fetch. Gunmar said it was one of the reasons he was puttin’ up with you.”

“Ungrateful brute,” Walter waved him off, and then tilted his head back on the chair. He puffed, and watched a ring of smoke expand in the air, and then heaved a long sigh. “I don’t remember much. Just her eyes: the most painful, aching energy lived within them.” He said longingly,” I woke up one day, and I was Gunmar’s. It was our purpose, I was told, to aid him the fight against humanity and its wizards. We only hear her now in quiet spaces between our breaths. I was with her the longest. I felt…cherished, like I never have since.” He closed his green eyes. “Until now, that is…”

“You’re talkin’ about the Doc?”

“I’ve said too much,” he set his glass down. 

“You can tell me, y’now. I ain’t no snitch.” NotEnrique took another, two-handed sip of his own glass.

Strickler’s voice slurred as he chuckled through his breath. “You’re just a baby. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Just gimme a chance.”

 _“Age doesn’t equal experience, Stricker,”_ Nomura’s voice ghosted through his mind. 

“Oh, sod it, fine.” a pale fist found the table. “ _Fine._ I’ve run out of confidants. Otto’s turning sketchy on me, and Nomura’s likely gone the way of Gunmar’s gullet, by now.” He picked the glass up again took a swig of his whiskey, except it was the wrong glass. Graphite filled his tongue, and he made a face. “And I’m getting pissed.” He added with a gag, referring--in proper English form--to his state of intoxication. “Scamp that you are, at least you’ve got a gentle heart.”

“I got a name, you know.”

“’NotEnrique,’” Strickler said, rolling his ‘r’, “is _not_ a name. It’s a footnote. You cannot carry on like that you're entire life.”

“I kinda like it.” he defended, “Besides, it’s only the kids that call me that; the parents think I’m just their little sprout.”

“And yet, you’ve taken to it.” He gestured with his glass—the right one, this time.

“C’mon man, spill the beans,” NotEnrique said after his elder took a few more puffs from the pipe. “It’s not good to hold all that junky turmoil in. You gotta give me some hope, here. I don’t want to see me new sister get squished. Are ya really gonna let the Doc and her boy get taken down?”

Strickler’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He sent a ring of smoke the changeling’s way, and watched as it hit its target dead center.

“You’ve heard of Camus?” Strickler asked.

“Nuh-uh?” he shook his head. 

Strickler set the pipe down, and rose from his chair. Scanning his bookshelf, he plucked one of the spines from its mooring. When he back around, the little minion had gotten ahold of his pipe, and was emptying its bowl into his mouth.

“Do. You. Mind?” He swiped the pipe away from NotEnrique, whose nostrils were now brimming with smoke. He took a moment to inspect the pipe for damage before he set it aside. Still standing, he pointed at the book’s unremarkable cover.

“The Myth of Sassafras,” NotEnrique read aloud as steam billowed out of his mouth. Strickler waved off the smoke.

“Sisyphus,” the teacher corrected.

The imp lifted a brow. “The bloke with the rock and the mountain?”

“Yes,” he leafed through the pages, and then pointed to a paragraph. “A few lines down. Read it, will you?” Pipeless now, he put his hands behind his back and looked toward the window.

“’The primitive hostility of the world rises up to face us across millennia.’*” NotEnrique quoted gruffly. “’For a second we cease to understand it because for centuries we have understood in it solely the images and signs that we had attributed to it beforehand, because henceforth we lack the power to make use of that artifice. The world evades us because it becomes itself again.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, young one, that I’ve become so lost in the process of pushing my stone up the mountain, that I’ve forgotten why I’m doing it. Camus’ speaks of the Absurd, yes? And of how we come to recognize it. A few lines prior:” Strickler stepped slowly toward the window, quoting from heart. “‘At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning in which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise.’* The moment you come to notice the absurd, the futility of your actions, life begins to lose its color, and yet the majority of us keep pushing the stone, keep climbing that hill, to whatever end.”

NotEnrique followed the older changeling to the window, scurrying up the side of an armchair as he clung to the top cushion like a tree.

“You don’t wanna push your rock anymore?” he asked hesitantly. 

“It’s not that,” he shook his head, looking out at the stars over the night-clad mountains. “For the longest time, I’ve just been pushing. I never once bothered to look up from the ground to see the other hills, the other mountains beyond mine. It’s as though I’ve had blinders on my entire life. I thought when I connected myself to Jim’s mother that I would be the one in control of all of this,” he laughed derisively. “I’m not. Her energy is gentle, but _powerful._ I feel it with every course of my heart, and every breath I breathe.” He closed his eyes, and took a breath, releasing it slowly. “I can’t let that light go out.”

“So you have feelin’s for her? You care.”

“More than that,” His next words entered the air so softy that they barely claimed utterance: 

“I love her.”

Yellow eyes widened. “Woah, mate. That goes _way_ beyond what I was thinkin.’ She’s _human._ ”

“I know that.” He snarled. 

“I thought we couldn’t— ’cause we can’t hide…look, whatever you’re doin’, man, you can’t keep _that_ up forever.”

“I know that, too,” the teacher's back straightened, indignant. “Unlike most of you, I have a remarkable amount of control over when I change,” his eyes flashed. “That includes when I am in pain, or otherwise spurred. It takes an incredible amount of training and, at times, torment to get that good, but that is part of how you prove you’re worthy of the Janus nobility.”

Still clinging to the headrest of the armchair, NotEnrique hiccupped, and a puff of smoke came out. “So what’s it like bein’ all cozy with a human?” he asked, leaning forward.

Strickler pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ugh, you filthy little creature.”

“I’m just curiou—“

“Absolutely _not_!” the teacher interrupted. 

NotEnrique jumped off of the chair and scurried back to the desk. “That’s gross!” He cackled, and finished his graphite-tainted drink. “Boy, boss, I had no idea you were _that_ muddled up. And I thought _I_ was in a mess.”

“It’s quite the morass,” he found himself strangely agreeing as he followed the changeling back to his desk. “But unlike you,” he added, folding his arms smugly. “I haven’t betrayed anyone yet. I’m still in the game. I still have a choice.” 

“So what’cha gonna choose?” The beady eyes looked up at him. 

That was the query of the hour, wasn’t it? He thought. 

Camus came to mind again: _‘What is called a reason for living is also an excellent reason for dying.’*_ The words brewed within his consciousness, running through his veins like venom. It felt exhilarating, and yet at the same time, a poison. 

A single question loomed within his mind:

How did one betray one’s own creator?

Green eyes floated back to the bottle of Talisker. Still standing, he reached for its neck, and popped the cork. 

“Another round?” He looked to his diminutive comrade. 

“Nah,” the creature waved him off. “As much as I’d like to wipe the thought of you and that medic lady away, me babysitter fell asleep and the ‘rents’ll be back from their dinner date soon. I’ve got the monitor rigged to a pre-recorded video, but they’ll probably come in and check on me themselves.”

Strickler poured himself another glass, regardless. “Yes, it would be best if you got back.”

“One more thing, cretin.” He said as NotEnrique turned to leave, setting a path toward the window. 

“That ain’t me name!” He scratched his diaper.

“I’ll call you what I like: coackroach, creature, cretin; until you get a new name. A real one.”

NotEnrique snorted.

“One breath of this to anyone and I _will_ feed you through that Fetch and straight to Gunmar. It’s my word against yours. Jim can’t know.”

“Yeah fine,” the small changeling said as he hopped up onto the windowsill. He opened the pane, and began to step outside, but then paused. 

“You’re disgustin’, bossman, but y’know...thanks for givin’ me some hope.”

“So glad to have you opinion.” he muttered, but then tucked a hidden smile behind his glass. He took a sip, and cleared his throat as he set the vessel down. “If you are ever in need of advice, you know where to find me. Just make sure that the coast is clear, next time. If someone is here--”

“I know, I know. I got it, you old fusspot. You’ll grind me bones to breadcrumbs and all that…”

He tented his fingers, and pointed the tips of them in emphasis. “Precisely.”

With nothing else to say, the changeling saluted him, and then scurried out of the window and into the waiting night.

Walter sat down as a breeze entered his office, and propped his feet on the desk. For a long time, he sat in the stillness, his lips brushing the rim of his glass, as they did against Barbara’s skin. Taking a deep breath, he let the dark, acerbic notes burn his senses. 

“Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it,*” he said, toasting to himself in the air, and then downed the rest of his glass. 

His neck felt exposed as he tilted his head back against the leather cushion, but it didn’t matter, he mused, closing his eyes. It was already open to the world. It was already bleeding.

And to those thoughts, he drifted away in slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> *Quotes 1-3: Albert Camus _The Myth of Sisyphus_  
>  * Quote 4: Cormac McCarthy _The Road_ (originally miscredited this to Tim O'Brien. My apologies! Forgot I switched quotes at the last minute!)


End file.
